That left only Detective third grade Roger Kope’s shield. Blank sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing the metal on his palm, wondering dreamily how to get rid of it. He could drop it down the incinerator, but it might endure, charred but legible enough to start someone thinking. Throw it out the window? Ridiculous. Into the river would be best-but could he walk that far and risk someone seeing? The most obvious was best. He would put the shield in a small brown paper bag, walk no more than two blocks or so, and push it down into a corner litter basket. Picked up by the Sanitation Department, dumped into the back of one of those monster trucks, squashed in with coffee grounds and grape fruit rinds, and eventually disgorged onto a dump or landfill in Brooklyn. Perfect. He giggled softly.
He pulled on gloves, wiped the shield with an oily rag, then dropped it into a small brown paper bag. He put on his topcoat; the bag went into the righthand pocket. Through the lefthand pocket he carried his ice ax, beneath the coat, though for what reason he could not say.
He walked over to Third Avenue, turned south. He paused halfway down the block, spotting a litter basket on the next corner. He paused to look in a shop window, inspecting an horrendous display of canes, walkers, wheelchairs, prosthetic devices, trusses, pads and bandages, emergency oxygen bottles, do-it-yourself urinalysis kits. He turned casually away from the window and inspected the block. No uniformed cops. No squad cars or anything that looked like an unmarked police car. No one who could be a plainclothes detective. Just the usual detritus of a Manhattan street-housewives and executives, hippies and hookers, pushers and priests: the swarm of the city, swimming in the street current.
He walked quickly to the litter basket at the corner, took out the small brown paper bag with the shield of Detective Kope inside, thrust it down into the accumulated trash: brown paper bags just like his, discarded newspapers, a dead rat, all the raw garbage of a living city. He looked about quickly. No one was watching him; everyone was busy with his own agonies.
He turned and walked home quickly, smiling. The simplest and most obvious was best.
The phone was ringing when he entered his apartment. He let it ring, not answering. He hung away his topcoat, put the ice ax in its place. Then he mixed a lovely vodka martini, stirring endlessly to get it as chilled as possible and, humming, took it into the living room where he lay full-length upon the couch, balanced his drink on his chest, and wondered why she had betrayed him.
After awhile, after he had taken a few sips of his drink, still coming out of his trance, rising to the surface like something long drowned and hidden, rising on a tide or cannon shot or storm to show itself, the phone rang again. He got up immediately, set his drink carefully and steadily on the glass cocktail table, went into the kitchen and selected a knife, a razor-sharp seven-inch blade with a comfortable handle.
Strange, but knives didn’t bother him anymore; they felt good. He walked back into the living room, almost prancing, stooped, and with his sharp, comfortable knife, sawed through the coiled cord holding the handset to the telephone body. He put the severed part gently aside, intestine dangling.
With that severance, he cut himself loose. He felt it. Free from events, the world, all reality.
Captain Delaney awoke with a feeling of nagging unease. He fretted that he had neglected something, overlooked some obvious detail that would enable Danny Boy to escape the vigil, fly off to Europe, slide into anonymity in the city streets, or even murder once again. The Captain brooded over the organization of the guard, but could not see how the net could be drawn tighter.
But he was in a grumpy mood when he went down for breakfast. He drew a cup of coffee in the kitchen, wandered back through the radio room, dining room, hallways, and he did become aware of something. There were no night men sleeping on the cots in their underwear Everyone was awake and dressed; even as he looked about, he saw three men strapping on their guns.
Most of the cops in Operation Lombard were detectives and carried the standard.38 Police Special. A few lucky ones had.357 Magnums or.45 automatics. Some men had two weapons. Some bolstered on the hip; some in front, at the waist. One man carried an extra holster and a small.32 at his back. One man carried an even smaller.22 strapped to his calf, under his trouser leg.
Delaney had no objection to this display of unofficial hardware. A dick carried what gave him most comfort on a job in which the next opened door might mean death. The Captain knew some carried saps, brass knuckles, switch-blade knives. That was all right. They were entitled to anything that might give them that extra edge of confidence and see them through.
But what was unusual was to see them make these preparations now, as if they sensed their long watch was drawing to a close. Delaney could guess what they were thinking, what they were discussing in low voices, looking up at him nervously as he stalked by.
First of all, they were not unintelligent men; you were not promoted from patrolman to detective by passing a “stupid test.” When Captain Delaney took over command of Operation Lombard, all their efforts were concentrated on Daniel G. Blank, with investigations of other suspects halted. The dicks realized the Captain knew something they didn’t know: Danny Boy was their pigeon. Delaney was too old and experienced a cop to put his cock on the line if he wasn’t sure, of that they were certain.
Then the word got around that he had requested the Kope photo. Then the telephone men heard the taped replay, from the man tapping Danny Boy’s phone, of the phone call from Monica Gilbert. Then the special guard was placed on the Gilbert widow and her children. All that was chewed over in radio room and squad car, on lonely night watches and long hours of patrol. They knew now, or guessed, what he was up to. It was a wonder, Delaney realized, he had been able to keep it private as long as he had. Well, at least it was his responsibility. His alone. If it failed, no one else would suffer from it. If it failed…
There was no report of any activity from Danny Boy at 9:00 a.m., 9:15, 9:30, 9:45, 10:00. Early on when the vigil was first established, they had discovered a back entrance to Blank’s apartment house, a seldom-used service door that opened onto a walk leading to 82nd Street. An unmarked car, with one man, was positioned there, in full view of this back exit, with orders to report in every fifteen minutes. This unit was coded Bulldog 10, but was familiarly known as Ten-0. Now, as Delaney passed back and forth through the radio room, he heard the reports from Ten-0 and from Bulldog One, the Con Ed van parked on the street in front of the White House.
10:15, nothing, 10:30, nothing. No report of Danny Boy at 10:45, 11:00, 11:15, 11:30. Shortly before 12:00, Delaney went into his study and called Blank’s apartment. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. He hung up; he was worried.
He took a cab over to the hospital. Barbara seemed in a semi-comatose state and refused to eat her meal. So he sat helplessly alongside her bed, holding her limp hand, pondering his options if Blank didn’t appear for the rest of the day.
It might be that he was up there, just not answering his phone. It might be that he had slipped through their net, was long gone. And it might be that he had slit his throat after receiving the Kope photo, and was up there all right, leaking blood all over his polished floor. Delaney had told Sergeant MacDonald that Danny Boy wouldn’t suicide, but he was going by patterns, by percentages. No one knew better than he that percentages weren’t certainties.
He got back to his brownstone a little after 1:00 p.m. Ten-0 and Bulldog One had just reported in. No sign of Danny Boy. Delaney had Stryker called at the Factory. Blank hadn’t arrived at the office. The Captain went back into his study and called Blank’s apartment again. Again the phone rang and rang. No answer.